Monday, that starched white collar of the week, that joyless grindstone of productivity, was keeling over, not with a whimper, but with a ritualistic harakiri of epic proportions. The air, usually thick with stale coffee and regret, carried the tang of iron filings and existential dread. Was it the soul-crushing TPS reports, or the fluorescent lights humming a maddening Cold War spy tune? 

It was as if some unseen force had whispered bushido into the ear of the very day itself. Emails arrived with haiku-like subject lines, cryptic pronouncements of impending doom: “TPS Reports Due,” “Meeting: Morale Rejuvenation.” Yet, beneath this terse efficiency, a current of quiet rebellion crackled.

Monday, was imploding in a grotesque display of ritualistic self-destruction. Not with a whimper, mind you, but with the bureaucratic flourish of a malfunctioning fax machine spewing forth rejection notices in triplicate. The air crackled with the ozone tang of unfulfilled expectations and burnt coffee.

Perhaps it was the sheer oppressive weight of the upcoming dentist appointment.Whatever the catalyst, Monday was going full Yukio Mishima, a slow, agonizing disembowelment of the very concept of a productive beginning. Perhaps a mid-morning existential crisis would spark a chain reaction of revolutionary workplace haiku. Maybe the breakroom vending machine, in a fit of sympathetic synchronicity, would dispense nothing but chocolate-covered anarchy symbols. One thing was certain: the week, stained with the blood of this ritualistic suicide,would never be the same.